Good for Something
by Donny's Boy
Summary: Everybody's good for something. So what's Mark good for? Apparently he's good at playing the part of the Angel of Death. Warning: Multiple character deaths.
1. Prologue

"Good for Something"

By Donny's Boy

Disclaimer: I own neither the characters nor the plot of _Rent_, and I am making no money from this story. I mean no harm.

Everybody's good for something. Roger's good for laughing—when Roger's drunk off his ass, he laughs at everything. And when drunk-Roger laughs, everybody laughs with him, because with laughing-Roger, everything's funny. Since Mimi's been around, there's been a lot of laughing-Roger, even when Roger's not drunk.

Maureen is good for keeping secrets. Nobody knows that at first. Everybody knows Maureen's a little … loud. A little flashy. But Maureen's had a lot of her own secrets. Maureen _knows_ secrets. She knows secrets, and there's something in her eyes—a depth, a hint of seriousness, that nobody expects to see there—that leads people to tell her their own secrets.

Collins is good for hugs. Whatever somebody needs a hug for, Collins has got one ready: happy hugs, sad hugs, small hugs, big bear hugs. He knows when people need to be left be and when people need to be hugged. He's a big man, and his arms can fit around just about anyone. And just about everyone, even Roger, will let Collins hug them.

Joanne is good for yelling. Everybody ends up yelling at Joanne, at least once in a while. It's funny, because Joanne doesn't yell herself. No matter what people say or do, Joanne stays calm and controlled. "Control freak," says Maureen. It makes people want to yell at her, like Maureen sometimes yells, and Maureen yells at Joanne most often. But everyone's done it, and everyone ends up stammering and embarrassed afterwards. Joanne just smiles, then, and asks, "Do you feel better?" And everyone says yes. And they do.

Mimi is good for loving. Mimi loves, and Mimi is loved. When Mimi's around, she's hugging on everyone and kissing on everyone and smiling at everyone. Roger still can't believe how alive she makes him feel. How special. When Mimi looks into his eyes, he feels like he is the only person in the entire world. That feeling blows his mind almost as much as heroin used to.

Angel is good at helping people live. She has so much energy, it just comes bubbling out of her. It's infectious. Her laugh, her smile, her everything. Roger can't say he's never really lived after having a drag queen in a Santa dress dance on his kitchen table. That—that is _living_. Angel is always good at helping people live their lives to the fullest.

And Mark? Mark is good at helping people die.


	2. April

**April**

Her eyes are drooping, languid. When she sees him, she smiles.

"My God." His words are so low, they are almost silent.

He goes to her and plunges his shaking hands into the bloody water. He lifts her body from the bathtub and cradles her to his chest. Her head lolls against his shoulder, and his stomach lurches unexpectedly. He shuts his eyes. He can't do this. He can't deal with this. It's too much.

"Don't leave me," April whispers.

Mark's eyes snap open. He's back. He can do this. He can _do_ this. "Isn't that supposed to be my line?" he jokes weakly.

He sets her down, as gently as he can, onto the bathroom floor. Mind racing, he slips off his sneaker and begins ripping the lace out of it. He ties the lace around April's arm, wincing as he pulls it tight and sees it pinch her skin. A tourniquet. He does the same with his other sneaker, his other shoelace. He feels as if he's watching the entire scene from above. Above it, not part of it. As if he's filming actors on a soundstage. His stomach doesn't feel sick anymore.

Next he takes off his shirt. April smiles again, and he realizes she thinks it's funny. That should make him angry or scared, but it doesn't. He just smiles back. He rips his shirt down the middle and uses each half as gauze for each of April's bleeding arms. "It's too late," she observes calmly.

"No."

"Mark—"

"No."

She sighs. "Just don't leave me, okay? Please?"

Mark knows he needs to call an ambulance, but he still finds himself saying, "Okay."

He looks down at her, looking up at him. He begins humming to relieve both of their anxiety. He never stops applying pressure to her arms. The blood seeps through his shirt, and it feels sticky under his hands. Then she begins shivering, whether from the cold of the bathroom tile or from oncoming death, neither knows. Mark releases pressure on one of her arms for just long enough to lift her up and slip behind her. He sits with his back against the sink and lets her head rest on his chest, while he resumes his futile attempt to stop her from bleeding out. It's almost a hug, her leaning back, him leaning forward and around her.

She stops shivering and says, "Thank you, Mark."

He's pretty sure those are April's last words before dying in his arms.


	3. Angel

**Angel**

Mark sits in the uncomfortable orange plastic chair, crossing and uncrossing his stiff legs. He isn't entirely sure how he got to this exact point in time. He is alone with Angel in Angel's hospital room, which glows an ungodly blue-white under the fluorescent lights. He is never alone with Angel. Collins sometimes is, of course, but if Collins isn't the only visitor, then generally it means all the group is visiting. Sometimes just Mimi comes, since she and Angel go farther back than the others, but never just Mark.

Yet, here Mark sits. Collins asked him to, and Mark couldn't refuse the man that small favor. Collins is teaching a class right now but can't bear the thought of Angel being alone, even for an hour or two. So Collins asked Mark to keep watch. No surprise there. Joanne and Maureen have been out of contact recently, since their last big fight, and Roger's been depressed and reclusive since his falling out with Mimi. And everyone knows that during the day Mimi's either too tired or too strung out to be able to do a bedside vigil. So it came down to Mark. There's a lesson there, he thinks, frowning.

"Mark."

Mark's ice-blue eyes, formerly glazed in thought, grow crisp with focus. He looks over at Angel. She's awake. She looks oddly naked without her make-up or wig. "Hey," he says softly. "How are you feeling?"

Angel smiles, and Mark feels a heaviness in his chest. "Oh, I can't complain," she laughs, but it's a lie. There's a lot of things she could complain about. She's dying, after all. But complaining about dying isn't her style.

He clears his throat to cover his unease. "Is there anything I can bring you? Get you? Do for you?"

She shakes her head, still smiling. "Honey," she says, "you have got to calm down. You're wound a little too tight."

"I'm sorry," he mumbles, looking down at his hands. He uncrosses and crosses his legs again.

After a few moments' silence, Angel murmurs, mostly to herself, "Definitely too tight."

_I'm really bad at this,_ Mark thinks. He wishes Collins was here, not him. He wants to walk out of the room, and walk out of the hospital, and walk right out of New York City, but instead he reaches over and places his hand over Angel's. It is only with his full willpower that Mark can stop himself from shivering at the feel of Angel's hand—all bones and papery skin.

He doesn't move for a long time. Even after he thinks Angel's probably asleep again, he keeps his hand on hers. He can't do much, but he can do this. So he keeps doing it.

"Mark?" Not asleep, apparently.

"Yeah. I'm here."

"You know, sweetie, there is something you can do for me." She pauses, licks her dry lips. "You gotta look after Collins for me. He's, well, you know. He's Collins. He won't look after himself. And with the way that Maureen and Joanne, and Roger and Mimi, have been lately … "

Mark laces his fingers with hers and gives a gentle squeeze. "Okay," he agrees.


	4. Mimi

**Mimi**

He's awoken by an incessant pounding on his door. He goes from asleep to dozing to sleepy to semi-conscious to fully awake in approximately point-five seconds.

"Mark! Dammit! Wake up, Mark!"

"I'm awake!" Mark fumbles for his glasses while jumping out of bed. He gets them on his face just in time to pull open his bedroom door. On the other side stands Roger, screaming and swearing.

As soon as the door is open, Roger launches himself at Mark. Mark stumbles back a step before steadying himself and grabbing Roger by the shoulders. "What is it?" he asks, oddly calm. "What's wrong?"

Roger's eyes shine in the darkness. "Mimi," he sobs and collapses onto Mark's bed.

Mark reaches down, touches Roger's hair, and quickly whispers something reassuring. Then he sprints to the other bedroom and over to Roger's bed. He leans over Mimi's still form. It's next to impossible to see her face in the darkness.

"Mimi?"

No answer. He reaches out and lays two fingers against her cold, damp neck. Her heartbeat is faint but there. He tilts his head and puts his ear near her mouth and nose. Her breath comes at irregular intervals, and it tickles slightly. Suddenly Mark feels a hand touch his face. "Roger?" Mimi's voice is little more than an exhalation of breath.

And—just like that—Mark's split in two, with one part watching himself from above again. It's funny how things always seem more surreal in the dead of night. Mark, the one still below, takes Mimi's hand from his face and kisses her fingertips lightly. "Hang on, Mimi," he tells her. Practically commands her. "I'll be right back."

As he's rushing away, he hears her call out "Roger?" again.

Mark finds Roger curled into a fetal position on Mark's bed, still sobbing, still barely this side of hysterical. For just a second, Mark feels himself wobble. His vision goes blurry, and he feels almost as though he'll pass out. He closes his eyes tightly and forces the feeling back down. Opening his eyes again, he grabs Roger around the shoulders and pulls the other man to an upright position on the bed. Roger blinks at him, confused.

"Mimi's alive," Mark says, giving Roger a little shake. He doesn't add that she won't be for much longer. "And Mimi needs you."

Still blinking, Roger nods. Mark smiles encouragingly. Then he takes Roger by the hand and half-drags and half-carries Roger back to the bedroom where Mimi lays dying in bed. The musician pauses in the doorway, and Mark has to push Roger to get him inside the room.

"Go hold her," he says firmly, almost harshly. The Mark that is floating above everything chuckles. Where did this stern voice come from? This isn't like Mark at _all_.

Roger takes a step towards the bed then whirls back around, eyes wide. "An ambulance!" he mutters. "I forgot to—shit!"

"It's okay. I'll call. Go."

"Shit, shit, shit!" Roger repeats in a near-scream. _Oh, crap,_ thinks Mark. Roger's now on the wrong side of hysterical.

Mark grabs Roger's face in both hands, and Roger struggles weakly against his hold. Mark stares into Roger's whirling green eyes, trying to convey calmness and strength, trying to will Roger into obedience. Roger stops struggling.

"Go. See. Mimi." And Mark shoves Roger further into the room.

Roger stumbles backward, falls onto the bed. Slowly he rolls over onto his belly and crawls up beside Mimi. He scoops her into his arms and whispers into her hair, words so low and soft that Mark can't hear them because Mark's already gone for the telephone in the living room.

When the dispatcher tells him the ambulance will arrive soon, Mark says, "Okay." And only then does Mark let out the breath he's been holding, close his eyes, and collapse to the floor in a shaking heap.

---

Author's Notes: Thank you very much for those who have reviewed. I hope you continue to enjoy this story. Though the theme is pretty well set by now—Mark's dealings with death—I will be trying to keep things from getting repetitive or boring. After all, I think how Mark deals with death would very much depend on whose death he's dealing with. Suggestions and comments are always welcome.


	5. Collins

**Collins**

"Check. Your move."

Mark sighs and rubs his forehead. He's never been terribly fond of chess, but Collins insisted. "Are you sure it's not checkmate?"

Collins smiles wanly. "Yeah, I'm sure. I'll let you know when it's mate."

"All right. You better." Mark returns his attention to the chessboard. He reaches out, his hand hovering over the board for a few still moments. He picks up a dark mahogany chess-piece and makes his move.

Collins nods, seemingly satisfied by whatever Mark's done. He coughs, and it makes his chest rattle. The coughing sounds like it hurts like a bitch. "Nice of you to indulge me in these games so often," he begins, waiting for Mark to cut him off.

Which Mark swiftly does. "Don't mention it."

"You always say that, and I always mention it anyways."

Mark glares, but there's no anger. It's just habit. "Your move."

Collins tilts his head, considering the chessboard in front of him. His deep brown eyes grow soft and unfocused as he thinks. They look huge and round in his pale face, surrounding by thin wasted cheeks. Mark takes the chance to lean back in his chair and look away from Collins' disease. He stretches his arms out a little. The chair's pretty uncomfortable. All of the furniture in the loft is uncomfortable.

"Still," Collins says finally, like there was never a pause, "it's nice. Roger never plays chess with me."

"Roger doesn't know how to play chess."

"Not that it matters. Roger's never _here_." Collins moves his queen. "Check."

Mark frowns, at both Collins and Collins' alabaster-white queen. He knows this was what Collins really wanted to talk about. He knows Collins misses Roger.

"Roger's having a hard time," Mark says carefully, while moving his king out of striking range.

"Mimi." Collins nods all-too-knowingly.

"Yeah."

Collins suddenly smiles, the brightest smile he's worn in a long time, and Mark feels his heart sink. The philosopher places his index finger carefully on the chessboard and nudges one of the pieces forward a few squares.

"Checkmate," whispers Mark.

"Yup."

Mark's throat goes dry.

"Now if I recall, we had a bet … "

Mark closes his eyes. He can't do this. He can't deal with this.

"Aw, come on, Mark. Don't be like this. You promised." Mark opens his eyes. Collins' hand is on his arm, and Collins is still smiling, slightly. "Please, Mark," he says, and it almost sounds like pleading. "I _can't_ go to a hospital. I saw how it was with Angel. That can't be me."

The filmmaker stands up and stretches again, buying time, putting off the inevitable. He moves towards the kitchen, but he can't feel his own legs. It's like he's floating. Dream-like, almost peaceful. Then he reaches the kitchen, and he has to close his eyes again. No way can he do this.

"Hey, Mark?"

"Yes?"

A pause. Then, almost shyly: "I love you, man."

And Mark's back again: attention focused like a laser, eyes wide and awake. He can _do_ this. He has to. "Love you too, Collins," he says lightly, while taking out the bottle of pills from behind a cereal box. After filling up a tall glass with tap water, Mark goes back to the living room where Collins waits on the couch. Silently Marks hands both bottle and glass to the other man.

Collins finds his rhythm quickly. Shake out the pills, toss back the glass, swallow. Repeat. It feels like forever to Mark, but within thirty seconds the entire bottle of pills is gone. Mark takes the bottle and glass back and place both on the coffee table, next to the chessboard.

Collins leans heavily against Mark. Mark wraps his arm around Collins' broad shoulders. "You're gonna stay the whole time, right?" Collins whispers in a soft, child-like voice. "Til I'm, uh, sleeping?"

"Of course."

Collins nods. He's happy. His body's gone and given up on him, he's broken and tired and old, but he's still happy. He snuggles into Mark's warm chest a little. "Take care of Roger, okay? He's, well, you know. He's Roger."

Despite himself, Mark smiles. "Okay." As Collins' breathing slows, as Collins loses consciousness, Mark hopes desperately that he's doing the right thing and that Angel will forgive him if he's not.

---

Author's Notes: I've changed the title of the last chapter to avoid confusion. Roger did indeed live through that chapter—the mention of both his and Mimi's names in the chapter title was simply to reflect that both appeared.


	6. Maureen

**Maureen**

The lights are still as harsh as he remembers, still that soulless blue-gray color. She holds his hand in a death-grip. Mark can feel the fear rolling off of her in hot waves.

"It might not be her," he suggests, mindful to keep his voice low and gentle.

She nods tightly. "Maybe." But she doesn't seem convinced.

"Well." Mark tries to think. It's hard, because a million thoughts and feelings are whirling inside him at break-neck speed. He pats her arm with his free hand. "Whatever happens, I'll be right here."

"Okay. Thanks." She cuts her eyes over to him. "Mark?"

"Yes?"

"I'm scared."

Mark starts scanning the hallway for the coroner. "Me too."

She's looking the other way and sees the coroner before he does. He hears her gasp and whips his head around. The coroner glances down at his clipboard then back up at the pair. "Ms. Jefferson? Mr. Cohen?"

Joanne falters, too scared to speak, so it's Mark that says, "Yes, that's us."

The man with the clipboard smiles a tight thin smile. "Before I show you the body, I should say … " He pauses. Adjusts his glasses on his nose. This drives Joanne crazy, which Mark can tell because her sharp fingernails dig deep into his knuckles. "The deceased suffered some disfigurement, and it might be very difficult for you both. To identify the body, as well as to view it."

Mark glances at Joanne. She nods, so Mark nods too. They both look through the large pane of glass that separates them from death. With almost excruciating slowness the bed-sheet is removed from the face of the deceased woman. She looks like hamburger. Mark feels stomach acid bubble up into his throat, and he clamps shut his lips and tries to swallow it down. Joanne is still gripping his hand.

"That's not her," she breathes, in a tone of wonder and awe and stark relief.

Finally Mark can't take it and breaks away, stumbles to the nearest trashcan, and vomits up everything he had earlier this morning. This admittedly isn't very much, but it still burns.

From behind him, he hears: "Are you sure?"

"I'm positive. That is not Maureen Johnson."

Mark finishes and wipes his mouth with the back of a trembling hand. He walks back to Joanne. As soon as he's within reach, she throws her arms around his neck, burying her face in his scarf. "It's not her, Mark," she repeats, crying, letting herself slump against him. "It's not her."

He looks again at the dead woman. Joanne's right—but then, Joanne's usually right. Though there's not too much of the woman's face left intact, that face was definitely never Maureen's. He hugs the sobbing woman who's clinging to him and softly thanks the coroner for his time. As they weave their way through the hospital's corridors, heading back to the parking garage, Mark keeps his arm around Joanne's shoulders. He is irrationally afraid that if he lets her go, she'll fall apart on him. Or maybe he'll fall apart on her. "She's alive, and we'll find her," he promises.

"I want to go home," she says in a flat voice. "I need you to drive, though. Don't think I'm up to it at the moment."

If he wasn't already numb from everything, Mark thinks he might have passed out from shock at the question. Joanne asking for something? Letting him drive her gorgeous, expensive car? But he doesn't pass out. He pulls her a little closer and whispers, "Okay."

----

Author's Notes: Again, thank you for reading and reviewing. I'm unsure what Collins would do—though obviously I tried to make the last chapter believable and true to Collins' character. Above all I tried to write it so that the characters showed awareness of the moral ambiguities of what they were doing. I didn't want to come across as glib or crass, and hopefully I succeeded.

And yes, in the last chapter, Mark faces his own death.


	7. Roger

**Roger**

They're watching the small television set that is on top of the bookcase. In a previous incarnation the bookcase was lime green, and hints of this past peek out from the bookcase's current chipping blue paint. As for the television, its picture is fuzzy, but the sound is pretty clear.

"I don't understand a word they're saying," Mark complains.

"That's because they're speaking Spanish," the other man says dryly.

"Yes, I know that. What I don't know is why we're watching these godawful soap operas."

Roger rolls his eyes. "Because I'm dying and you should be nice to me."

There was a time, before April died and perhaps even before Collins died, when this might have thrown him for a loop, but now Mark merely rolls his eyes right back at him. He pulls himself up from the couch and pads into the kitchen to survey their rations. "How about soup for lunch?" he calls over his shoulder.

Roger groans. "We had soup yesterday."

"And we'll probably have soup tomorrow. Chicken noodle or vegetable?"

"You know what, Mark? I hate you. A lot." Roger cocks his head, thinking. "Vegetable."

Mark pours the soup mix powder into a pot and fills it with a tad more water than the mix packet recommends, so that they can get a little more mileage out of the mix. He stirs the soup as it cooks on the hot plate while Rogers watches his soap opera. He brings two bowls out to the main living area and sits beside Roger on the couch. The couch is as uncomfortable and ratty as it's ever been.

Bending over the bowl and inhaling the scent of the soup, Mark shuts his eyes for a moment. It's comforting. The smell of the broth, the heat of the liquid down his throat. This is the real reason he makes soup so often. He begins eating but sets down his spoon when he hears a soft curse come from Roger's side of the couch.

Roger's hands are shaking. They do that a lot these days; he can't even play guitar anymore. Right now, they're shaking so badly that Roger can't get the spoon to his mouth. He looks over mutely to Mark with an expression that is a perfect blend of rage, frustration, and fear. Scooting nearer, Mark takes Roger's spoon, dips it into the soup, and brings it up to Roger's lips.

Roger doesn't look at Mark, and Mark doesn't look at Roger. That's the only way this works. If Mark says anything or gives any indication that he is aware of what is happening, then Roger will freak out and shove him away. Probably throw the soup bowl at the wall, for good measure. Of course, it works better for Mark this way too. If Mark doesn't have to say anything or even look at what he's doing, he can step outside of himself and pretend it isn't real. He can watch with detachment, precision, emptiness. It's the only way this works.

Thankfully, today Roger's feeding concludes without incidence. No violence committed against innocent soup bowls or innocent filmmakers. Mark slurps down his own soup then returns to the kitchen with the empty bowls.

He comes back and sits down on the couch, careful to keep a respectful distance from Roger. Roger doesn't like it when Mark is too close. Mark suspects it makes Roger feel weak. They watch the soap opera in companionable silence.

Out of the blue Roger says, "I miss Mimi."

Mark allows himself a soft sigh. "Me too, Rog."

Roger frowns, thinking. "And I wish Collins was here."

A long pause. "Me too."

Then Roger reaches forward with an uncertain, trembling hand and turns off the television with the remote on the coffee table. "Think I'm gonna take a nap," he explains unnecessarily.

"Okay."

Gingerly, painfully, Roger stands up and begins shuffling towards his bedroom. Before shutting the door, he looks over his shoulder. Formerly brilliant green eyes now dark and inscrutable. "Hey, Mark? The soup wasn't bad."

Mark just smiles.

Hours after Roger should have woken up, Mark creeps into his best friend's bedroom. He knows as soon as he sees Roger, pale under the mountain of blankets, but he touches Roger's face anyways. Cold. He feels for a pulse. Nothing. Mark sighs. _At least he didn't have to go to the hospital,_ he reflects. Without thinking Mark removes his scarf and, gently lifting Roger's head, wraps it around the dead man's neck. It looks good on Roger, he notes with a small nod of satisfaction.

---

Author's Notes: My apologies to those dreading the death of Roger. He went before his time. As for Maureen … while not all questions will be answered, the story will reveal whether she's alive or dead.


	8. Joanne

**Joanne**

The buzzing of florescent lights is the soundtrack to death. Blue-gray is the color of death. Hospitals are the harbinger of death.

Mark is really starting to hate hospitals.

He waits patiently in the ugly industrial room designed for waiting. He has a magazine because his hands, so used to carrying and fiddling with a camera, need something to do. He flips disinterestedly through the pages, squinting at the tiny text. He needs new glasses. He knows he needs new glasses. Maureen and Joanne tell him all the time that he's getting old and his eyesight is going. But he doesn't listen. He only scowls at them, which makes them laugh.

Next to him, Maureen bounces in her chair. She does not wait patiently. She heaves long exaggerated sighs, and her eyes roam restlessly around the room, touching on everything but seeing nothing.

"Mark," she says finally.

"Hmm?"

"Pookie!"

He closes the magazine and turns to face her. She is older too, but age has been kind to her. There are some lines around her eyes and mouth, and a few strands of gray through the hair she's kept long throughout the years, but when she smiles, she is forever nineteen. Mark feels old when he looks at Maureen, feels even older than when he thinks about how he needs new glasses.

She cocks her head at him. "Mark, what's wrong? Why are you looking at me like that?"

Idly he wonders if he's still in love with her a little. Maybe. But probably not. "I was thinking about how old I am," he tells her.

She laughs at this, and he grins. He can still make her laugh. Then she leans in close, faux-serious, eyes crinkling with the smile she's holding back. "You _are_ old," she whispers, "and you need new glasses."

He scowls, right on cue.

She laughs again, then cuts to the chase: "I'm bored."

"Chemotherapy takes a while. She should be out soon, though."

"This sucks, Mark."

He opens the magazine again. His hands crave movement, any movement. "I know, Maureen. It sucks a lot."

He feels his thoughts drift back to the time, so many years ago, when nobody knew where Maureen went. Back to when, before she came back, they all thought she was dead. He shivers a little at the memory.

She doesn't see the shiver and continues, "Not just the waiting-in-hospitals bullshit, but also … I mean, Joanne … " Maureen's voice teeters on the edge.

Mark gently touches her wrist. "I _know_."

Maureen pats the hand on her arm, as though he's the one who should be comforted. She forces a smile. "So! It's been ages since we've had a nice chat," she begins.

"I had dinner with you and Jo yesterday."

She waves away his words, as if she's swatting at flies. "Same difference." She is unflappable. She is Maureen Johnson. "Talk to me. Tell me all about your new film."

"Sure. Okay."

He sets down his magazine, ready to oblige, then smiles at something behind her. Without Mark having to say a word, Maureen twists around in her chair to see Joanne coming through the waiting room doors. Though the smile she offers them is shaky, Joanne still looks pretty good. Still tall and strong-looking. Fierce eyes. The lawyer even still has her hair, as the chemo hasn't taken it quite yet, and it shines as black as it ever has. As Maureen rushes over to cuddle and smother her long-suffering lover, Mark scratches his chin and wonders if Joanne dyes her hair. Maybe. But probably not.

Over Maureen's shoulder, Joanne catches Mark's eye and mouths the words "thank you."

---

Author's Notes: Thanks for the kinds words about Roger's chapter. I've got nothing against the scenes where Roger dies in the hospital or with a confession, but it's been done a lot by others and I wanted to write something that was a little different. Next chapter is Mark's chapter.


	9. Mark

**Mark**

"How are you today, Mr. Cohen?"

Mr. Cohen looks up, a single snow-white eyebrow raised. The basic answer is the same as it's always been these last several months: Mr. Cohen is dying, slowly and somewhat painfully.

A sigh comes from Mr. Cohen's companion. "All right. Stupid question. I'm sorry."

"No, no, not stupid." Mark coughs and snuggles down under the blankets on his bed. "I feel cold, mostly."

"You need more blankets? I can get you more blankets." Benjamin Coffin the IV moves to do so, but Mark gently grips his wrist. "No blankets, huh?"

Mark shakes his head. "If it's all right, I'd prefer to just have some company."

Ben laughs nervously and runs a hand over his close-shaven scalp. "Sure! Sure. You can tell me about the good old days. Y'know, your wild times with dad and Collins and everyone."

"I can do even better." Mark smiles. "I can _show_ you the good old days."

So Mark talks Ben through setting up the old projector in the private room of the swanky nursing home that Ben pays for. When Ben immediately proclaims the projector "ancient" in a good-humored sort of way, Mark decides that maybe he likes this kid, even if he is Benny's son. Even if the kid does have an annoying habit of checking up on him all the time.

Mark doesn't watch the films. He knows these films. He made these films. Instead he watches Ben. Ben watches with a slight smile on his painfully young face. Mark is touched at how the other man's smile widens just a bit whenever Benny appears on-screen. Ben must miss him a lot. Perhaps that's why he's so diligent about looking after Mark—Mark is the last link to Benny, to the past.

When Roger appears on-screen, with the longer hair he wore after heroin and April and HIV, Mark frowns. Thinking of Roger always makes Mark think of the one real fight they ever had: _You pretend to create and observe, but really you detach from feeling alive._ Which was true enough. But Mark never did it to protect himself from getting hurt. He did it so he could protect them. He still wishes he could have found a way to explain all that to Roger, before Roger … Well. Too late now. No day but today.

Ben's light brown hand lightly touches the stark white hospital gown covering Mark's shoulder. Mark glances up, confusion further wrinkling an already wrinkled brow. He can't make out Ben's face. His vision is all blurry. Why?

"Are you all right, Mr. Cohen?"

Oh. He's crying. That's why. It feels good. When he was young he never used to cry much, but right now it feels good to let the heat of the tears warm his sallow cheeks. Hesitant, Ben puts his arms around Mark's shoulders, and Mark allows it. Ben smells like coffee. It's nice.

"I'm sorry the films got you upset," the younger man says, gentle, soothing. Mark wonders where Ben learned his gentleness. From Benny? Maybe. But probably not.

"It's all right." Mark sniffles a little. "I'm just an old man, that's all. We get sentimental."

Ben laughs. He checks his watch, still keeping his arms around the older man. "You know, I don't have to get back to the office this afternoon. Things are pretty slow right now. Would you like me to stay for a while?"

Mark opens his mouth to say no. To say that he's fine. Quite all right. Doesn't want to be a burden. Instead he finds himself inexplicably responding, "If you wouldn't mind. Yes. I'd like that."

"Okay," Ben says, nodding, grinning. And the grin Ben _definitely_ learned from his father, Mark finds himself thinking, as he falls asleep with warm arms around him.

---

Author's Notes: So all things must pass, even Mark Cohen. I do hope this chapter is more "full circle" than "anticlimactic," but perhaps not. Regardless, thanks to those who have read and reviewed! I also hope you've enjoyed the story—well, that you've enjoyed it as much as anyone can enjoy a story where the author cruelly kills off all the characters.


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